Experimenting with The Mary Sue Experiments
by oboe11
Summary: My adventures in 1944, based on "The Mary Sue Experiments" by GSJessica
1. Chapter 1

'The Mary Sue Experiments' was the brainchild of author GSJessica and was worked on by 10 authors from March to September 2008. I'm resurrecting the idea just for fun as I missed participating in the original story. The purpose of the original Mary Sue Experiments was to see if an author could do a self-insert into a story scenario without becoming a 'Mary Sue', while writing themselves as accurately as possible into the Hogan's Heroes world which was to be treated as historically real and not just a TV show.

Naturally, I don't own Hogan's Heroes, Stargate: SG1, or anything else mentioned which might be copyrighted. I think I still own myself though :-)

I would like to dedicate this story to a dear friend from the Royal Marines Association whom we lost to cancer last week. He was the drill instructor for our band for many years and he will be missed by us all.

* * *

I have to say I love antiques, auction sales, and snooping through other peoples' stuff. I also have an affection for World War II, so when the box of old military stuff came up on the auction block, there was no hesitancy on my part to put in a bid.

Now, my primary reason for bidding on the box was the Royal Marine pith helmet sitting on top. See, my band was granted special permission to wear the official helmets despite not being regular military. Unfortunately, the helmets are a rare and precious commodity. We've been lucky enough to pick up the occasional one off e-bay but they frequently cost an arm and a leg and when you are a non-profit group with a very limited budget…well, you get the idea. So I had to jump at the opportunity to try and get us one – cheap.

And it worked. Nobody else at the auction seemed to realize what a rare gem was sitting there. The band got a new helmet for $25 and I got the rest – a box of junk to most but I was looking forward to sorting out the various military odds and ends, many of which seemed to come from the WW2 era.

I had just finished putting my son to bed and eagerly dived into my box of treasures to see what was really inside. I pulled out item after item, a lot of which was completely unrelated: Royal Marine collar dogs, an embroidered crest from US 8th Air Force (very cool as I remembered Colonel Hogan wearing one just like it on the shoulder of his dress uniform), some uniform buttons, shoulder flashes, a couple of medals, etc. Hours passed as I dug through this pile of stuff until finally I came to a small bag near the bottom.

Curious (I am a Leo by the way and you know what they say about cats), I opened the drawstring and pulled out the contents. To my surprise, I was holding what could pass for a gold pocket watch. It had no hands however, just rings etched on its face. I turned it over, played with it a little trying to figure it out, and rubbed my hand over the rings.

"Mom? Whatcha doing?" came a voice from behind me.

"What are you doing out of bed?" I demanded, slightly startled by my son's sudden appearance.

"I don't want to go to bed yet," he replied, as usual. Unfortunately, he seemed to have inherited both my husband's and my night owl tendencies. "It's only 8:00. Can I play with your farm?" Farmville is his latest obsession.

At this point I am extremely confused. I would have sworn on a stack of Bibles I had already put my son to bed that night. I looked at the clock and sure enough, it was only five minutes to eight. Then I look back at the table with all its sorted piles from my treasure box…only to find the box sitting there full and waiting for me to begin. I must have been dreaming or something strange but I set to and get my son off to bed (again I add mentally).

That task done, I once more sit down to the box from the auction and sort through it, but there's no joy in the discoveries I find inside this time. I seem to know exactly what everything is. Then I come across the 'watch' again.

I take it out of its pouch and start examining it. It has some funny symbols on the side as I turn it over. I rub my hand over the front of it…

"Mom? Whatcha doing?"

I stop cold. My son, out of bed, again. I look at him and he is once more fully dressed. Then I look at the clock: five to eight.

Okay, this is beyond weird. Everything is back in the box again and I am beginning to feel like Jack O'Neill in the Stargate SG-1 episode 'Window of Opportunity' where the characters are stuck in a time loop reliving the same 10 hours over and over again; except my loop seems to consist of approximately two and a half hours.

I hustle my son off to bed (for the third – and hopefully final? – time) before dumping the box out on the table to find the gold disk in its pouch. I look it over, being careful not to rub the front as I had done previously and my son seems to stay in bed (thank heavens). I wonder what on Earth I've discovered here when suddenly I get this light bulb idea. Except my bulb is probably about ten million candles in intensity.

Holy Hannah! It's the time travel device from the Mary Sue Experiments! I had just finished reading the saga of several of the Hogan's Heroes fan fiction writers and to be honest, I was a little jealous they all got to meet the real heroes. As far as I could remember, the fate of the device (devices – weren't there two at some point?) was unknown, other than the one in the National Archives in Washington, D.C. But this was Canada – how had the device ended up here?

I was really wishing for an instruction manual at this point. I know what you're thinking – a computer person wanting to RTFM? But yeah, I wanted to go back and visit those Heroes myself and if I could swing it, I would be there on my own without all the confusion of eight or so other time travelers. Then there was the added benefit of Hogan already knowing how to send me home and I wouldn't have to sing any silly songs.

I'm scheming at this point and I know it. I'm not really that brave (or that stupid?) but I'm seriously thinking of calling in sick tomorrow and spending the day in 1943. Actually 1944 might be safer since the original story took place in '43 and I wouldn't want to get caught up in that mess.

At this point I should probably explain I had a great imagination when I was growing up. Ever since reading C. S. Lewis' "The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe", I would pretend I had a magical doorway in my closet. Except instead of taking me to a fantasy world, I would travel to any TV show I wanted and have adventures with the characters, or carry out an episode the way I would have written it, or some such. After hanging around in fan fiction, I guess you could say I'd imagine myself as a Mary Sue, although I didn't know what that was then. Hogan's Heroes was one of those TV worlds where I could be the Senior Female POW Officer in an all male camp, heroically jump in front of a bullet to save someone's life, be seduced by Hogan (well I wasn't married then!) and best Hochstetter while I was at it. Um, yeah that sounds really corny now but it seemed great back then.

So, do I tell my husband what I found? Not on your life. He doesn't really understand my obsession with Hogan's Heroes or my need to write fiction about them. Besides, I'll be home in time to cook dinner.

I didn't sleep much the night before, imagining all sorts of things about visiting the camp. I'm weighing the pros and cons on going prepared. The previous group that went was caught completely unawares, unlike me who could take anything with me I liked. But wouldn't I rather experience the era in its natural form? Where would be the fun in watching Carter wire his explosives if I showed up with C4 and electronic detonators? Not that I have access to anything even remotely like that, but you get my point.

And what do I wear? There is no way in heck I'm showing up in some skirt and pumps. The fact I don't even have an everyday skirt in my wardrobe should tell you something. I'm thinking just going in jeans and a sweatshirt with running shoes. Or should I wear something more military like my army boots? You can bet the boys won't have a size 4 ½ on hand. I'm really wishing I had a set of BDUs but I haven't got time…well now I guess I have all the time in the world don't I?

I scheme and scheme some more. There's an army surplus store in the next town over from me so I head there the next morning after dropping my son at school. I debated over postponing my trip until after I had learned to shoot a gun, but decided I couldn't wait that long. Besides I was only going to be there a few hours at the most; the odds of Colonel Hogan allowing me out on a mission would be somewhat less than nil, especially after his experiences with the first group of time travellers. Never mind the fact I wasn't sure I wanted to go on one in the first place, despite how cool it sounded. I'd like to imagine I'm brave.

Now back home, I quickly dress in my new fatigues, then pack a few items in my grandfather's WWII satchel, figuring I might as well try to be somewhat authentic and maybe it would bring me luck. I throw in my digital camera, pocket knife, compass, whistle, magnesium and flint block (not sure why, but it's part of my Girl Guide lost in the woods survival pack), a roll of duct tape (yeah, I watched MacGyver too), and a few other items as gifts. I have a bit of room on top so on impulse I grab a dozen eggs out of the fridge, figuring they'd make a nice peace offering. Okay, I'm ready to go. My tummy is doing flip-flops with excitement.

Now all I need to do is figure out how to send myself back to 1944, and not just relive the last two and half hours of my life. Not as easy as it sounds. I opened the compartment on the rear of the device and found the tool Byakugan had mentioned in his report from 1878 which is used to set the time period the traveler wants to jump to. It triggers a heads-up display and I attempt to set the right destination. Fairly confident I have it right, I grab my gear and rub the front of the device.

The world swirls around me – much more noticeable on a long trip over years than the split second disorientation of only shifting a couple of hours. My destination forms around me and all I see is dirt tunnels lit by bare bulbs and the odd kerosene lamp.

I've done it! I'm really here – the tunnels under Stalag 13!

I'm ecstatic, and then a shudder passes down my spine as one thing strikes me as a little odd: Where is everybody?


	2. Chapter 2

I am an idiot. There's really no other explanation.

I stand there in the dimly lit tunnel, surrounded by silence. I'm assaulted by a huge wave of fear which threatens to drown me. What if everyone's evacuated? What if I miscalculated and the war is over already? A flurry of 'what ifs' snowball through my thoughts for a brief moment until I try to shake them off and take stock of my situation. I look up and down the tunnel, trying to figure out which way I should go. I'm scared but I need to move. I'm also claustrophobic. Should have remembered that before aiming for the tunnels in the first place, but honestly, I figured they would be big enough I wouldn't have a problem (they seemed it on the show – mind you it was a set where they had to accommodate an entire film crew). Panic is now rising in my chest. I attempt to swallow it. I want to go home. Change is never a good thing with me. What the heck was I thinking?

I try not to whimper, then try to get a grip on myself. I tend to react one of two ways to a new situation; either I go introvert or extrovert. It depends on if I'm ever going to see these people again. I tend to be a lot more introverted around people I'll be expected to get to know better, not wanting to make a bad first impression. So grabbing the bull by the horns so to speak, I figure this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. I'll never have another chance to meet the Heroes, and I won't be running into them on a street at home, or in a business meeting or whatever. I have nothing to lose. Extrovert comes to the fore. Besides, it's either that or cower in the corner and wait on the off-chance someone is around to find me.

I stride down the tunnel, guessing one way is just as good as another but I've always had a sense of direction. If I go some place once, I can generally find it again even without knowing street names. Our GPS drives me crazy. I even gave it a nickname: Nutty Nancy the No-Good Navigator. Give me a real map any day.

Seems I chose the right way as the tunnels widen slightly (thank heavens) and I pass more connecting branches and store rooms. I poke my head in to see if anyone's around, finding LeBeau's pantry and the sewing room where they store German uniforms and civilian clothes. I have to stop for a minute, utterly fascinated by the number and variety of uniforms they've acquired over the years. I'm doing the spine shiver thing again. I wonder if this is what they mean by a 'squee' moment?

I hear some noises a little ways off. Part of me is relieved; I'm not here alone after all. Another part of me is panicked; I'm not alone here after all! I suddenly remember from the original story how displeased Colonel Hogan was when he was beset by all the time travelers and now here I was, going to face him on my own. My belly is in severe knots now.

For someone who usually plans everything down to a tee, I surely didn't think this one through at all, completely enamoured by the opportunity to be part of something fantastical. Perhaps a large part of me didn't truly believe it would happen anyway.

Well, if I really want to go home, I need to go introduce myself to whoever is making the noises down the tunnel. Perhaps they can just hand me the travel device and I can disappear without anyone being the wiser, after I swear my rescuer to secrecy. No need to upset the Colonel. I'm sure Kinch is great at keeping secrets. With luck, I'll run into Carter instead. He always seemed the most friendly.

I make my way further through the tunnels and I can see where it opens up to a large room. I edge my way to the door way and what I see steals my breath away. Holy Hannah! It's Kinch. It just has to be Kinch. A large dark skinned man with Sergeant's stripes working on something about the size of a bread box, which just had to be the radio.

I duck back against the tunnel wall, close my eyes and take a deep breath. This soooo cannot be happening! But I know it is. They were right, all of them: GSJessica, Linda, Tuttle, Hexiva, IronAmerica, 96Hubbles, Jake…they were all right.

"Don't move."

The threatening words are all but growled an inch from my ear and reinforced by the mechanical clicking sound of a gun being cocked. It sounds amazingly loud compared to what you get on TV, but then again, my heart was racing and the adrenalin was coursing through my veins a mile a minute. It was also very, very close.

I'm not really what I would call the nervous sort, but I always seem to startle easily so you can imagine how high I jumped. It's a wonder it didn't get me killed. I'm sure my eyes are wide as saucers as I stare at the gun. I've never had a gun aimed at me before. It's all I can fixate on. I don't even know who's holding it.

"Who are you and what are you doing here?"

I'm vaguely aware of being spoken to, but with the blood pounding in my ears, I don't really hear or comprehend the question. I don't even have my hands up to show I'm not going to make any threatening moves or that I'm unarmed.

I finally calm down enough and I return to my senses, just in time to lose them again. My eyes flick up to see who is holding the gun. Oh. My. Gawd. It's Colonel Hogan, looking larger than life and angrier than a stirred hornet's nest.

It's him. It's him. It's him. It's him. It's him. It's him.

I think my brain short circuited.

He has such a commanding presence, I automatically snap to attention and salute (British style I might add, with palm out), not saying a word. Probably couldn't if my life depended on it, which it just might at this point.

He cocks an eyebrow at me, but not the gun unfortunately, leaving the safety off. His gaze takes me in, head to foot and I can tell he doesn't know quite what to make of me. I certainly don't fit the profile of a soldier. I have no rank on my army surplus fatigues although I had added the Royal Marine globe and laurel collar dogs on a whim which I'm seriously regretting at the moment. I'm short. And sadly, rather rotund. I guess if you had to describe me according to the characters on the show, I'm LeBeau's height, Schultz's shape (although not quite as big!), and Hogan's age. I'm not winning any beauty pageants here.

Hogan motions with the gun for me to enter the large room where Kinch was with the radio. I drop the salute and do as I'm told, sitting on the cot against the wall while Hogan covers me with the gun as he leans against the table.

"Kinch, get the others."

Oh Lord, I'm going to meet them all at once. So much for going back home with no one the wiser. Still, this was the reason why I had come in the first place and odds were good I was going directly back home. Guess that makes it a win-win.

Kinch returns. I hear muffled banging and thumping, then suddenly the room is filled with bodies as Newkirk, Carter, and LeBeau come pouring through the door, only to pull up short when they spot Hogan and myself. I almost give a little wave but there's something in their expressions which stops me.

"Stand up."

My first official order by Colonel Hogan. I'm glad I don't swoon; I'm too practical for that nonsense. I suppose it's technically my second, since 'Don't move' would have been the first. Regardless, I comply and Newkirk steps forward to give me a thorough patting down. LeBeau steps forward to retrieve my satchel which Newkirk has removed from my shoulder and makes moves to dump it on the table.

"Careful!" My first words to the Heroes erupt from my lips. Good grief! What was that about good first impressions?

LeBeau hesitates before setting the bag down gently, then flips back the flap. His eyes widen when he spots the item on top.

Hogan notes the reaction. "What is it? A bomb? A weapon?" He obviously has a one track mind.

"Non, mon Colonel." Ooooh, LeBeau's speaking French. This _must_ be a 'squee'. "Oeufs."

"Oeufs? As in eggs?" asks Hogan with surprise.

"Oui, oeufs. Real oeufs. A full dozen. They're beautiful." I can see the glimmer of pleasure in LeBeau's eyes.

"They're a gift. For you," I add. "I've heard how hard they are to come by. Much better than powdered."

"Why are they cold?" asks LeBeau, puzzled.

"They've been in the fridge." I almost smack myself. "Of course, you don't refrigerate eggs. I should have remembered that from…" I trail off before my tongue gets away from me. I am _not_ telling them about the story I wrote called Executions. They'd surely get the wrong idea. "It's a North America thing," I finish lamely, forgetting Hogan and Carter are American and probably don't refrigerate their eggs either in this time period. Heat rushes to my cheeks. "I brought something for all of you," I add meekly.

"She's clean," puts in Newkirk, distracting the others from the eggs. I'm grateful the subject's been dropped. Hogan puts the safety back on his weapon and walks around the table, putting the gun away somewhere behind Kinch's table. He must be feeling safety in numbers, I think. After all, it wouldn't take much to overpower me.

"What else is in there?" asks Carter, attempting to peer over LeBeau's shoulder.

LeBeau starts pulling out items. "Tea bags…"

"I'll take those," says Peter, snatching them out of LeBeau's hand.

"Duct tape…"

"That must be for me," says Carter, taking the large roll from LeBeau.

"A set of precision screwdrivers…" reads LeBeau off a hard case.

"I could use those on the radio," says Kinch, quickly confiscating my gear.

"And a bottle of Pusser's Rum. Think that's for you, mon Colonel?"

"I'll take it, even though I'm not Navy," he replies. "That it?"

"Not quite," says LeBeau, dumping the remaining items, like my jack knife and digital camera onto the table. The others sort through my stuff while Hogan comes to stand in front of me. I can tell by the look on his face my interrogation is about to begin.

"You're from the future," he states plain as day.

A wave of relief washes over me. I must have done something right to end up in a time after the original time travel adventure. Thank goodness! That means I won't be messing with the time line by letting Hogan know about the time travel before he's supposed to. It also means I have a way home because he has the device.

"Yes," I confirm.

"What year?"

"2010," I answer.

He mulls that over for a bit. "Any more of you coming?"

It must be his biggest fear, to be overrun by travelers from the future again. "Shouldn't be," I reply. "I'm the only one who knows about the device."

"You come from the National Archives?" he asks. "Because anyone could access it there."

"No. I've never even been to Washington, although it's on my bucket list."

"Your _what_?" he asks, quirking his eyebrow just _so_. Squee.

"Oh, my bucket list. You know, things you want to do before you 'kick the bucket'."

He sighs. Apparently, this isn't the first time he's been confused by 21st century idioms. He rubs the bridge of his nose. Headache coming on I think.

"Look, I bought a box of military odds and ends at an auction sale. The device was in a pouch at the bottom of the box. I recognized it from the story posted on the internet by GSJessica. I'm the only one who knows what it is or what it does. I thought I would just pop back in time and meet you all, then you could send me home since you have a device here and know how to use it. I'll be back before dinner and no one will be the wiser…" I stop blathering as the expression on his face changes. Suddenly my mouth goes dry and I get the sensation I'm in serious trouble. "What's the matter?" I manage to croak.

"The device isn't here," he says and all thoughts of being home for dinner flee from my mind.


	3. Chapter 3

"What do you mean it isn't here?" I ask, totally taken aback that I may not have a ticket home as planned.

"We sent it to London for safe keeping," admits Hogan, rubbing his neck to relieve suddenly tense muscles. A dark look passes over his features which he quickly masks.

"We didn't want any one 'appenin' across it by _accident_," adds Newkirk. They trade covert glances and I have to wonder if there is more story behind that reason. I remember the end of the original story had Hogan coming to the future but no one knows what happened to him. Did Newkirk follow him? Maybe the others as well? Obviously they returned to their proper time but their little safety precaution wasn't helping me any.

"Terrific," I say scornfully, not realizing how Hoganish I sounded. "So get it back! Get London to air drop it to you tomorrow night. It's my only way home."

"It's not that simple," Hogan replies. "We only get drops on a regularly scheduled basis unless it's a dire emergency. London can't spare the manpower or risk the flight crew more often than what they currently do."

"Well that's not like the series," I mutter. Didn't London always drop everything to cater to Papa Bear's whims? "So when is your next resupply?" I ask, thinking there has to be an easier way to do this.

"We just got one yesterday. Next one's in three weeks," says Carter.

"Three weeks!" I sputter. I can't believe my luck. I'm stuck in Stalag 13, most probably down in the tunnels for three weeks. I briefly wonder if they'll send me to England via sub but realize I'm probably not worth the risk to the Underground members or sub crew, nevermind the potential information the Gestapo could learn if I was captured. I'm not terribly concerned about the passage of time, because they can send me back to any when, so I can still be home for dinner. I'll just be three weeks older than when I left.

"Kinch, get on the horn to London and request they include the time travel device in their next drop. Advise them we have one traveller who needs returning but we are able to handle the situation until our next scheduled resupply," says Colonel Hogan.

Kinch moves behind his work table and cranks up the antennae before settling in to send the requested message.

"In the mean time," continues Hogan, "you'll have to stay down here and out of the way. There will be no sneaking upstairs just to have a look around and no using the tunnel exit for a little walk in the woods. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir," I reply, knowing he is issuing the order to protect his men and the Operation even if he is a little brusque about it.

"You never answered my question," he states, leaning back against the central table and crossing his arms. He looks casual, but I know he means business.

"My writing name is 'oboe11'," I reply. I debate about giving my real name, but Mary Sues always have unusual names and since mine is a combination of my grandfathers' names, well perhaps it's fringing on the Sue-side. While I'm hesitating, Hogan begins to frown. As he reaches a full scowl I realize I've stopped speaking and hastily add, "and I'm here to meet you. Only that's backfired a bit." I squirm a little under his intense gaze, knowing he's subtly prompting me to elaborate. "I just wanted to pop in, meet you all, deliver my gifts to make your lives a little nicer, snap a few pics and then go back. Figured I'd be here an hour tops, until you burst that bubble." Hogan makes a non-committal grunt as if to say 'it's not my fault'. "Well, it's not like I expected to go on a mission or anything!"

"Darn right you're not!" he spits out before he can help himself. Hogan gives me the once-over again as he takes a deep breath and regroups. "You military? Royal Marine?" His tone makes it clear how doubtful he is about that being true.

"I'm quasi-military, sort of," I reply, my cheeks heating as I go red with embarrassment. Extrovert is fading fast.

"Care to explain?"

"I'm with the band," I mumble, looking away and folding my arms around myself in a self-hug as I sag back against the tunnel wall.

"The _band_?" Hogan exclaims incredulously. He obviously doesn't think he heard me right.

"Yes. The _Band_." I give him a bit of a glare for mocking me. "The Band of Her Majesty's Royal Marines Association Ontario to be precise. I wear army boots and a pith helmet and I could march circles around you flyboys!" I declare firmly, pushing up off the wall to sit upright.

"Really?" asks Hogan. I can see the beginnings of a twinkle in his eye and I'm sure what I've said has delighted him to no end. Behind him, the others are exchanging glances and I'm sure they're just as amused.

"Really," I affirm, unable to quit while I'm ahead. "I can quick march, slow march, and counter march. I've done routines which would make your head spin. I've done pinwheels and crisscrosses. I've even done a battalion wheel…" Hogan's eyes crinkling and his mouth twitching as he tries not to burst out laughing at my enthusiasm halts me mid rant. "Yes, well, ahem," I clear my throat a little and try not to look too abashed. "My aptitude tests in high school said I should have been a logistics officer but while it wasn't unheard of having women serve then, it wasn't particularly popular so I satisfied my military tendencies by being in the band instead. Lot less people shooting at me. I'm good at drill but it's the only training I've had. Everything else I know is from books, television, or movies, and most of them have been American."

Hogan nods, accepting the information but doesn't comment. Maybe I'm reading something into his expression but I sense he's somewhat disappointed.

"Okay, so I'm a pretend soldier, I admit," I say. "Maybe I make more of it than it truly is but it's due to respect for our veterans, not to dishonour their service and sacrifices. The way the Marines march just a little bit prouder when the band plays Life on the Ocean Wave is amazing to watch. Don't tell me you don't stand a little straighter whenever you hear Wild Blue Yonder."

"You still honour the military in the future?" he asks and his tone would seem to say he was slightly surprised by this.

"Yes, we still have Remembrance Day services on November 11th. We also have the Highway of Heroes."

"What's that?"

"When a Canadian soldier is killed in action overseas, they always return through a specific air base and are processed in a nearby city before being released to the family. The stretch of highway between the base and the city is called the Highway of Heroes and every time a soldier comes home, the bridges over the highway are flooded with people, a lot with flags, who come to pay respects to the fallen soldier on his last trip home. It's very moving."

There's a silence as the group absorb the import of my explanation. I've tried to keep the description basic so as to not give away too much information on the future to these men who have yet to live it.

"So we're still at war then?" asks Hogan quietly. I catch a quickly smothered look of despair in his eyes and I realize he's jumped to the wrong conclusion that we're still fighting the Nazis 66 years later. He must not have had much exposure to world events on his jaunt to the future or else he's afraid something happened to change what he knows.

"Actually it's a different war. There have been several since this one ended," I explain, praying they will garner some hope for their immediate future even though I've been purposely vague.

I can see Hogan preparing to ask me another question. Before he can get it out, my stomach grumbles loudly.

"Sorry," I say, mildly embarrassed. "It's dinner time at home. I should be back already."

Hogan signals to LeBeau who promptly disappears down a nearby tunnel. I hear a slight rumble and squeak and realize he's just gone up to the barracks. He returns quickly with a sandwich. By the glare Newkirk's giving me, I think he was planning on having it himself which does not win me any brownie points with him despite bringing the tea.

"Thanks," I say, taking a small bite. Hogan continues to ask questions while I eat and long after I finish. I answer the best I can, leery after reading too many science fiction books about disrupting the timeline. I do learn that I managed to land myself on May 15, 1944. I snort to myself – my mother's birthday, literally.

How much information should I give to them? Will it help win the war or prove detrimental to history as I know it? I know a lot about what happens at the end of the war but even D-Day hasn't happened for the Heroes yet. What would Hogan say if I told him I'd been on a U-boat? The fact that it's in the _Chicago_ Museum of Science and Industry probably wouldn't count for much, never mind the fact the sub won't be captured until June 4th. My head is swimming and I inadvertently yawn with the exhaustion of answering questions but not telling what I know.

Hogan takes my yawn at face value and realizes how late it's gotten.

"We should be hitting the sack too. Got early roll call tomorrow. LeBeau…"

"Oui, mon Colonel?"

"Give her a bit of a tour, let her know what areas are off-limits, and get her settled for the night."

"Oui, mon Colonel," replies LeBeau.

I'm whisked away for the nickel tour, discovering they even had a bathroom of sorts where I could get washed up for the night. I suppose it made sense, given the number of days and nights they had visitors in the tunnels waiting for transport to London but I had never thought about it before.

Before long, LeBeau's tucking me into a cot in a sleeping room near Carter's lab. "Bonne nuit, ma chère."

"Merci, LeBeau, et bonne nuit," I reply, hoping I haven't totally butchered my high school French.

He nods with a slight smile as he leaves so I guess I didn't do too badly. Probably a lot better than Newkirk ever would.

I settle into the cot, finding it comfortable but my eyes refuse to close. So much has happened today, it is hard to grasp. And there are a pair of someones back at home I miss desperately. Three weeks trapped in these tunnels is going to be hell. It's a long time before I finally find some sleep.


	4. Chapter 4

"Okay guys, listen up," calls Colonel Hogan as he strides into the radio room. Everyone is already there waiting for him: Kinch, LeBeau, Carter and Newkirk. And myself though not through any part of being a member of the team. I really have no other place I am allowed to go, forced to stay in the tunnels and out of sight of the camp above while we wait for London to send the time travel device in the next scheduled supply drop.

It had been a long week so far with still another two to go unless something pressing changes the drop schedule, but I wasn't holding my breath on that one. I found I was longing to see blue sky and smell fresh air that wasn't tainted by damp earth and musty material. I'm sitting quietly on the cot Kinch keeps by the radio, my normal 'hang-out' spot when someone's downstairs. Most of the time the rest of the tunnel system is kept in darkness unless preparations for a mission are underway and rather than wasting their carefully rationed supply of kerosene, I have been keeping to the lit portions of the tunnels.

I have to admit it is rather lonely; I'm not really keeping anyone company. They have their own routines and things to keep them occupied. Mostly I'm ignored and my more-normal shy personality has come back to the fore. The guys are doing important work here and I don't want to get in their way so I watch from the sidelines and don't bother them. It also means I'm minimizing my impact on the timeline. Knowing my luck, and Heaven forbid, I would probably screw something up so bad it would cause the Nazis to win.

LeBeau's been really good about seeing I get decent meals. Kinch sometimes starts a conversation when things are really slow or he's waiting for a response from London. Carter has let me into his lab for a change of scenery, and of all the Heroes I suppose he's the one I'm getting to know the best. Both Newkirk and the Colonel are doing their utmost to ignore me, just as I'm doing my best to not be a thorn in their side but the waiting is starting to grate on my nerves.

My attention is drawn back to the Colonel, as he's explaining the Intel behind the latest mission to come down the wire.

"This bridge has to be blown tonight; priority one: no exceptions, no delays," emphasizes Hogan. His firm tone has the rest of the team leaning on his every word. "London has just received reports of a Panzer division moving through the area, aiming to strengthen their side of the Western front. If we can take out the bridge, it will delay them enough for the Allies to get reinforcements in place. Otherwise, our line will likely be overrun and it could be a major setback."

"What do we know about the bridge structure, Colonel?" asks Carter, his mind already working on how many bombs and what strength will be needed to accomplish their task.

"It's a simple wooden truss and arch spanning 200 ft. Nothing we haven't taken down before," replies the Colonel, and Carter nods in agreement. "We'll need timers on this one – with the Panzers around, there will be added patrols and we'll need to get back to camp as soon as we can. We'll head out at 2300. I know it's mid-morning now – will that give you enough time to put together enough packages Carter?"

"Should do Colonel. I have some already bundled – just need to add the timers," says Carter with a nonchalant shrug. I can tell he's truly comfortable with his role as the team's demolition expert.

"Good. Update me with a status report at 1400 and let me know if you need any extra hands," orders the Colonel. The team breaks up, easily picking up Hogan's unvoiced 'dismissed' and Carter heads off to his lab, happily whistling a Tommy Dorsey tune.

* * *

Two o'clock comes round faster than I realize and soon four of the team members are gathered around the radio room table. Carter arrives late and with a scowl on his face. I've never seen Carter worked up over anything before and I wonder what has the normally even-tempered man in such a huff.

"It's no good Colonel," begins Carter angrily, throwing a timer onto the table with a bit of force. It hits with a bang, skids a little and comes to rest in the center, innocently meeting the stares of the team.

"What's no good, Carter?" asks Hogan.

"The timer. _All_ the timers," emphasizes Carter. "Only had a few left and not one of them is functional."

"Can they be fixed?" questions the Colonel.

"Not a chance sir. They're all defective. Missing the spring which controls the count down." Carter picks up the offending device and twists the control dial. It immediately swings back to 0 in less than a second. He throws it back on the table in disgust. The others sport wrinkled foreheads as they frown at the hurdle they've just been handed.

"Okay. Alternatives? What about a wired detonation from the box?"

"Thought of that sir," answers Carter. "Remember how we asked for more detonator cable in the last drop? Which they forgot to send?" Winces go round the table and the Colonel drops his head to his chest and sighs. "In a nutshell, we don't have near enough. A smaller bridge, maybe, but not 200 feet," finishes Carter.

"That only leaves fuses. I take it we have those?" asks Hogan in exasperation.

"Yes sir…"

"I sense a 'but' there Carter. Go ahead, spit it out," says the Colonel.

"The fuses are pre-measured and short. Remember we usually light 'em and toss 'em. I have lots of sticks so we can put the bundles of dynamite close enough together that the explosion of one should lead to the explosion of the next in a chain. But the initial fuse will only last about a minute. Whoever lights the fuse won't have time to get clear…"

And there it was. Laid bare on the table with the defective timer. The oh-so-simple operation had just turned into a suicide mission. My eyes widen in disbelief at what I'm hearing and I subconsciously hold my breath – waiting for one of those brilliant "Heroes' Ideas" to come springing forth from someone's mouth.

"I'll do it sir," says Carter quietly, his anger at the situation diffused just like one of his bombs.

"No Carter, I'll do it," replies the Colonel. "The next CO will need your expertise."

The room erupts into a flurry of arguments over who is more expendable, with everyone bucking to be the one to lay down his life instead of the Colonel.

"Enough!" bellows Hogan and silence descends. Jaws snap shut in mid-argument at the command. "My team. My order. My choice."

Hogan pivots and stalks away, headed to the ladder to take him up to the barracks. Shoulders sag on the remaining team members. Carter suddenly makes a fist and pummels the table before grabbing the damnable timer and retreating to his lab. He still has all the other bundles of dynamite to put together. Little bundles of death which will bring an end to his CO's life…

"I 'ate this bloody war," fumes Newkirk as he too heads towards the ladder. LeBeau and Kinchloe follow behind, climbing up to the barracks proper and leaving me alone with the echo of the Colonel's words ringing in my ears.

_My team. My order. My choice._

Those of us who write fan fiction have often portrayed Hogan as the self-sacrificing type, but to be forced to witness his bravery first-hand was enough to bring tears to my eyes. I'm left stunned by the emotion still filling the room as I curl up on the cot, hoping someone could come up with something in time to save the Colonel.


	5. Chapter 5

I must have dozed off, because Kinch is at the radio next time I look up. I never heard him come back.

"Are things okay?" I ask tentatively, wanting to know if anyone has come up with an idea to save the day while I was sleeping. I can't believe I took a nap while all this is going on.

"No, not really," replies Kinch with a sigh. "The Colonel's laying the groundwork with Klink in preparation for not coming back."

"Is the Colonel really going to die tonight Kinch?" I ask. I hope my tone doesn't show the fear I feel in my heart.

"We can hope and pray that he doesn't," says Kinchloe. "But honestly, it doesn't look good." He shakes his head and breathes deeply. "He doesn't know how much he'll be missed."

"I'm sure he does," I reply. "It's obvious just watching you guys interact how much of a bond – a family – you've formed here."

"He thinks he's replaceable. He's not. He's just as unique and crucial to this team as the rest of us," continues Kinch with a hint of anger in his voice at his CO's apparent lack of common sense. "Perhaps even more than the rest of us," he mutters.

"Yes, but can you honestly picture him ordering one of you to die?"

"He's had to do it before…" trails off Kinchloe.

"Maybe when he was commanding the 504th, but not here," I state firmly. "He's living up to his namesake." At Kinch's confused look, I clarify, "_Papa_ Bear. He's adopted all of you like his kids now and he'll do everything he can to protect you."

Kinch nods unable to speak and clears his throat, as if a lump had formed there at my words.

"So no one's been able to come up with any way to save the Colonel?" I ask.

"Not unless you know how to light dynamite without matches," replies Kinch as he turns back to his radio.

It's quiet for a while as I think over his last words. _Light without matches…_

"Holy Hanna!" I exclaim as I jump off the cot to head to Carter's lab. Kinch looks at me like I've gone crazy as I look back and smile.

"Maybe I do, Kinch. Maybe I do…"

* * *

"Carter!" I call as I enter his lab. His work table is stacked with bundles of TNT for the night's mission. He is quietly taping another bundle together. I can tell he takes pride in his work by the care in how he makes sure the sticks are tight and the tape taut and flat. It's the frown which creases his forehead and tension around his eyes that give away the stress he's under, for he knows who will more than likely fall victim to his labours.

"Carter?" I call again and succeed this time in catching his attention as he looks up to see who has disturbed him.

"Oh hi," he replies absently as he returns to his bundle and finishes it off by neatly snipping the tape. It joins the others in the stack. "Come to help?"

"Noooo, not exactly," I reply, hedging a little. Now that I'm here I am wondering if this idea has any merit whatsoever. But if I don't suggest it, I will forever wonder if my idea might have saved Colonel Hogan's life. "Do you have any potassium permanganate?"

"Why?" he asks with a little concern. "Do you have foot rot?"

"No! Of course not!" I exclaim and then remember the dark purple crystals were used in soldiers' foot baths in the trenches during WWI to prevent fungus like Athlete's Foot. "But do you have any?"

"Yeah, sure, I have a little. There's more in the delousing station stores if you need more," he says, reaching for a bottle about the size of a spice jar.

"Okay, that's a start. Now, do you have any glycerine?" I ask hopefully. If he doesn't, then my idea has just gone up in smoke.

"Of course," replies Carter, reaching for a larger bottle on a different shelf. "What do you need those for?"

"Carter, what happens if you grind up potassium permanganate and add a drop of glycerine?" I ask patiently.

"It ignites," he says with a shrug. Then his eyes widen at the implication. "Holy cats!" he exclaims and I know he's onto my idea. "How'd you think of that?"

"Girl Guides - er, Girl Scouts," I reply, switching to the American form of the world-wide organization. When he looks confused, I explain further, "It's a way I have of doing special fire lighting. I lay the fire with a nest of ground potassium permanganate in the center, and then when it's time for campfire, I tell the Brownies a story about the fairies leaving a magic potion for us to light our fire with. I let them taste the glycerine since it's just a heavy syrup. They think there's no way liquid sugar can light a fire until I pour some onto the crystals and poof! Instant campfire." I laugh at Carter's expression. "They're only 7 and 8."

"That's brilliant!" he says appreciatively. "So what did you have in mind for the dynamite?" he asks.

"Well, I was wondering if we could figure a way to lay the fuse through the ground crystals and then suspend the glycerine over top and somehow have it release onto the potassium after a delay long enough to get clear of the explosion. Do you think it will burn long enough to light a fuse?" I ask seriously having never lit dynamite before. "It lights tinder in a campfire."

"We can try. It's only 1630 so we have a bit of time to experiment," he says and I can almost see the wheels going around in his head coming up with something. "The glycerine is liquid but it's also really thick…"

"Would it go through some loosely woven fabric? Like burlap or cheesecloth?" I ask. "But it would still have to hold it long enough to absorb through, not just drop through the holes. I think cotton would be too tight a weave."

"Maybe, maybe. Let's give it a try…"

* * *

We spent the rest of the afternoon and evening testing and fine-tuning our home-made bomb timer and because of this, Carter was late getting ready for the mission. Dashing off at the Colonel's bellow, he hurried to get changed and apply shoe polish to his face to blacken his features. He had already loaded five satchels with the dynamite bundles so I carefully carried them to the radio room table. With so many to be placed to gain the cascade effect, everyone on the team was going to help. It was just the Colonel who was going to be the one remaining to light the fuse. At least, so he thought. Carter had other ideas.

The team was gathered and making final preparations. All were dressed in black and grabbed the satchels to sling around their necks and over their shoulders. I slipped into the background as they finished gearing up.

Hogan had Carter go over the basic instructions on how the bundles were to be placed as a refresher and to ensure they would be placed quickly and efficiently. Carter had a rudimentary sketch of the bridge and was pointing out the key locations the sticks were to be placed for maximum effect. Then he pointed to one specific spot on the diagram.

"And this is where the one with the fuse goes," he says, tapping it lightly with a gloved hand. Before he can continue, Hogan breaks in.

"Everyone will be off the bridge before I put that bundle in place," he says, making sure to look each team member in the eye to affirm he will be the one with the fuse.

"No sir, you won't," says Carter as he stands tall and faces his commanding officer.

"Carter we've been over this and it is not open for discussion," replies Hogan. I can see the muscles in his jaw clench. He doesn't like his orders to be questioned.

The rest of the team are in mild shock over Carter standing up against the Colonel. They're exchanging glances and wondering how this is going to play out. Instinctively they know to stay out of the stand-off.

"That was before. You can't do it now," says Carter. "Begging the Colonel's pardon, but you don't have the 'expertise', sir." He throws the Colonel's words back at him and Hogan glares.

"How much 'expertise' is there to lighting a match and starting a fuse?" he demands. The Colonel's voice is getting hard and brittle and Carter realizes he's on thin ice.

"Not much," agrees Carter, "but that's not what's going to happen. Watch, sir," he says as he pulls out a spare piece of fuse, a small dish, and a couple of bottles. Carter opens the first jar and puts some purple salt-like crystals in the dish and then grinds them with a pestle. He then lays the piece of fuse across the crystals. Using an eye dropper, he drops a single drop of liquid from the second bottle onto the dish. A second later flame erupts, causing the team to step back in surprise. The fuse ignites and burns its way down to the end, leaving a trail of ash across the table. "I've created our own chemical timer and respectfully sir, unless you've suddenly gained an immense amount of chemistry knowledge over the course of the afternoon, I'm the one going to be setting the fuse."

I'm grinning from ear to ear, proud of Carter's handling of both the demonstration and Colonel Hogan. This is the 'rabbit out of the hat' everyone's been waiting for someone to come up with. Carter is patiently standing at ease waiting for the Colonel's reaction. I think the Colonel is in shock because his mouth is working but nothing's coming out. The team is definitely stunned, in awe at Little Deer taking on the wrath of their Bear more so than coming up with a viable solution to the situation.

Finally, Hogan seems to connect his brain and his mouth, breaking into a huge grin. "Good work, Carter. Now let's go blow up a bridge."

Carter deflates and flushes crimson, slowly realizing what he said to his commanding officer. He starts to stutter an explanation, then thinks better of it as the others slap him on the back and arms as they pass to head to the emergency exit. Carter moves to follow them, then turns back to look at me.

"Good luck," I say whole-heartedly. "I hope it works."

"Me too," he says with a grin, then turns and disappears down the tunnel.


	6. Chapter 6

Time passes so slowly, it almost seems to be going backwards. Alone in the tunnel, I try to wait patiently. By the time I'm checking my watch every minute to see if it's time for the guys to return, I know I'm ready to lose it. I even try pacing – it seems to work for the Colonel, but it's not something I've ever mastered. I give up after the third time crossing the floor to return to the cot.

I wonder what Kinch does to keep himself occupied while waiting for teams to return, but I realize he's got a lot more available for him to do. He could do maintenance checks on the radio for one, or go upstairs for another. Neither of which I could do. I didn't even have anything to read to help pass the time.

The tension is getting to me and so is the late hour. Finally I lie down on Kinch's cot and try to settle for awhile. Hopefully I could pass some time by catching a nap but as I lay there staring at the dirt ceiling, I know I'm too keyed up to sleep. My vivid imagination wanders into all sorts of scenarios, each one worse than the last. Had the bridge been blown already? Did my hare-brained scheme work or did they have to resort to matches after all? Was the team out there attempting to get back to camp, narrowly avoiding patrols in their grief as they valiantly tried to return while carrying the fallen body of their intrepid leader?

I giggle at the last overly dramatic description, glad there is no one here to hear me. Apparently I've been away from writing too long. In the end I doze a little, with one ear open as all moms seem able to do when their child is sick or late for curfew.

Scuffling and the occasional thud from the locker area eventually rouse me and I realize they're back and changing into their uniforms. My first thought is to dash in and find out what happened but I come to my senses before embarrassing myself in front of a half-naked team of saboteurs. Instead I sit up on the cot, waiting for them to come through on their way to the ladder to Barracks 2.

Carter is the first one through the adjoining doorway on the way to his lab, his hands carrying the satchels which went out heavily laden with dynamite but are now empty and hanging limply. I feel a little relief as Carter was the one who was going to light the fuse and he made it back safely. Unless the Colonel did override him…

"Well?" I demand, rising from the cot, eager for news. My fingers twist with worry as I try to read the expression on his face.

Carter turns to face me. His face splits open in a huge grin and his eyes sparkle in the low light. "It worked!" he crows triumphantly. "Oh you should have seen it! The guys got the sticks attached to the bridge and then I set the fuse just like we practiced. Everyone got away to a safe distance and then ker-pow! The first bundle went off like clockwork. Then the next and the next and bam-blast-kablooie! The whole bridge collapsed. It was beautiful!" He actually paused to catch a breath before continuing, "And even better than that, everyone made it back - especially the Colonel!"

"Yes!" I cry, pumping my fist in my enthusiasm. Relief pours through my entire body and I'm awash in a tingling sensation from my head to my toes. I know the grin on my face is as intense as Carter's. Before I realize what's happening, he's rushed forward and given me a huge hug as we laugh away the tension of the day.

"Thank you," he says suddenly, pulling away. I can tell he's a bit embarrassed over his emotional display as his cheeks tint a rosy hue. "Without your idea, I don't know what we would have done tonight."

"Don't think about it," I reply solemnly. "I'm just glad it worked and that I thought of it in time." I take a deep breath and let it out. I'm still grinning but it's toned down somewhat. "You'd better get that stuff put away and get some sleep."

"Yeah," he agrees and then retreats to his lab. I hear the odd 'ka-blam' drift over his shoulder as he goes and I have to chuckle at his antics, so like the Larry Hovis Carter. I turn around to return to the cot and see Kinch, Newkirk and LeBeau standing in the doorway, staring.

"Congratulations," I say, not sure how to take their gawking. Finally they come into the room.

"This was your idea?" demands Newkirk.

I think I pale. I certainly feel as if the flush from Carter's excitement has fled and my heart pounds a little harder in my chest. Newkirk has gone out of his way to ignore and avoid me while I've been here. He's a little harsher and rougher around the edges than Richard Dawson's portrayal, hardened by life and the back streets of London. I've watched him play with his 'pencil sharpener' all week during briefings and he's very skilled in handling the knife, much more so than was ever revealed on the show. I know why he is always the one Hogan takes to watch his back when going into a dicey situation. Newkirk's intense gaze makes me feel as if I've done something horribly wrong despite the results turning out so right. He is not a man to cross or to meet in a dark alley.

"Yes," I reply hesitantly. I might as well own up to it; Carter's let the cat out of the bag anyway and I know they heard his every word.

Newkirk marches over in front of me, his face unreadable. He thrusts his hand out and I flinch. "You're a bit of alright then, duck," he says. Cautiously I take his hand and he shakes it firmly. We both sort of smile and then he's gone, headed towards the barrack ladder. Guess I made some brownie points after all.

As I watch him go, LeBeau comes over next with a flurry of French and a peck on each cheek. I manage to catch a _formidable_ and a _magnifique _but most of my French I left in the classroom, despite it being one of my official national languages. Kinch had quickly sent the news to London by the time Newkirk and LeBeau are through thanking me. He gives me a smile and a clasp on the arm as he passes, almost as if he's afraid to touch me, then he is on his way to his bunk too with LeBeau in tow.

The whirlwind has settled. From being alone here all night to a few short chaotic moments of their return to being alone again. Carter waves as he passes through to the ladder, calling "Good night" as he goes and yet one person is still missing. Carter had assured me he'd come back safe but where was Colonel Hogan?

Thinking perhaps he'd gone topside via another tunnel exit, I pick up the discarded blanket from the earthen floor, shake it out and fold it. I look up to find Colonel Hogan standing in the doorway watching me.

"Colonel," I say, placing the blanket on Kinch's cot and turn to greet him. He looks unsure of himself, which is very un-Hogan-like. He shifts his weight from foot to foot as if the movement will help him make up his mind. Apparently he reaches a decision as he pivots silently and strides away, disappearing into the labyrinth of tunnels.

Disappointment washes over me. Somehow I thought he might at least acknowledge me after saving his life. Silly I suppose but I've always thrived on praise. He didn't seem angry, and yet… With a sigh I turn back towards the cot to straighten the pillow.

Thunk. Thud. Thud. Clink.

I spin around to find Colonel Hogan pouring generous shots of the Pusser's Rum I brought into two tin cups he'd clunked down on the central table. My eyes widen in surprise – he hadn't abandoned me after all.

"I assume you drink this stuff?" he asks, handing me a mug.

"I've had one or two in my day, not necessarily with the best results," I reply with a rueful smile, remembering the time I attempted to unlace my army boots by sticking my feet straight up in the air after I fell off the bed while under the influence. "We sometimes get paid the old fashioned way, especially after a performance at a Navy hall. Those Vets know how to party." I frown, thinking about what I said. "Or at least you will know how to party once the war is over." Time travel is certainly confusing on the tenses.

Hogan chuckles. I'm sure he's had one or two too many at the 'O' club in his day too. He clinks our cups together and offers a quiet salute before tossing it back. I follow suit, but only down half what he's poured me. Feeling the burn, I suppress the urge to gasp and sputter – it's been a while since I've had the potent stuff. Hogan refills his and offers to top mine up. I decline, knowing how quickly this stuff goes to my head. I'm already feeling it.

There's a companionable silence for a while as we nurse our drinks. I stare into the dark amber liquid as I swirl it in the bottom of my mug. Another thud as Hogan slaps his empty cup down on the table. I quickly down the remainder of mine and do the same. He nods at me and heads towards the ladder to the barracks. He pauses at the edge of the room and looks back.

"Thanks," he says, tapping his thumb in an irregular beat on his leg. He looks like he could say more, but Commanding Officers don't gush gratitude.

"You're welcome," I offer in return. "Glad it worked."

"Me too," he replies with a half grin. "Good night."

"Good night, Colonel," I respond softly to his retreating back.

I head over to my assigned sleeping quarters, lie down on the cot and cover myself with the blanket. Just as I'm about to fall asleep, a thought suddenly crosses my mind which causes my forehead to crease with worry. Had I affected the timeline by saving the Colonel's life tonight? Was this why the series ended abruptly? But they had done a D-Day episode, so maybe not...or maybe the show's writers invented the episode and it wasn't based on fact?

The rum thrumming through my system is making my thoughts swirl and the room spin. I'm second-guessing and confusing myself all at the same time. Eventually I come to the conclusion that what's done is done and there's no way in hell I'm going to change the outcome. Or maybe it was supposed to turn out like this all along. Damn temporal paradoxes. Sleep is good.


	7. Chapter 7

Word comes two days later that London has arranged an emergency drop of supplies. Apparently Colonel Hogan had stressed to his superiors that the unit would be unable to do any more sabotage missions without replacement timers and detonator wire. Nothing gets London moving like the thought of having Papa Bear sitting on his -, er, twiddling his thumbs for two weeks.

Newkirk and Carter go out to fetch the load that night but it's the next afternoon when it finally gets unpacked, thanks to roll calls and an unplanned road work detail courtesy of Colonel Klink. Eagerly, the men go through the gifted supplies. It's like watching children on Christmas morning.

Carter confiscates the box of timers, quickly testing them and whooping his pleasure as these ones work correctly. He is also pleased to see London had restocked his supply of dynamite, since he had used extra on the bridge. Snagging the detonator cord as well, he went to store everything in his lab, ready for the next mission.

Newkirk meanwhile was sorting out the other goodies London had included to get the team back on their good side. Spices for LeBeau, vacuum tubes for Kinch, nylons for Hilda, and other small lightweight items soon find their way onto the central table. The last item out catches my attention.

Newkirk hands the velvet pouch over to Colonel Hogan, but I know instantly what it is. London included the time travel device with this supply drop. I get to go home!

I'm very relieved I won't have to wait another two weeks and yet at the same time I feel a pang of remorse that I would have to leave here. After the bridge episode, I was feeling part of the team on a small scale and wanted more. But on the other hand, I was homesick for my family and knew it was time to return.

"So this is it, eh?" I say. The other Heroes stop their rummaging and look up at my words, eyes flicking between Hogan and myself and the little bag he's holding. Hogan nods. Carter comes back and notices immediately the change in atmosphere of the tiny room.

"What's going on? What happened?" he asks, eyes wide as he looks around at everyone.

"I'm going home," I reply with a smile. "London sent the time device early." Carter's face falls and his shoulders slump.

"Aw shucks, I was kinda getting use to having you around here," he replies, digging at the dirt floor with a toe of his boot.

"Well, I was getting used to being here," I respond. I walk over and put my hand on his shoulder. "But I miss my family and my time period. And while it has been an experience living in the tunnels, I also miss flush toilets, showers, sunshine, fresh air, and wide open spaces!" I add with a laugh. The others add a chuckle and Carter perks up a little.

"Well, just because it's here doesn't mean you have to use it right away," he says.

"I suppose not," I agree. "How about I stay until after dinner?"

Everyone agrees and LeBeau immediately starts planning a grand farewell feast. Kinch and Newkirk work on putting away the rest of the supplies as the Colonel returns upstairs with Carter.

I manage to catch LeBeau on his way out. "Nothing too fancy now LeBeau," I say as I interrupt his menu planning. "You've only got a couple of hours!"

LeBeau's head snaps up and a look of horror crosses his face as he realizes there's no time to cook a huge intricate meal. He runs out in a panic and I can't wait to see what he comes up with.

An hour and a half later, I've gathered what meagre belongings I brought which I'm taking back with me. Newkirk appears and unfolds a red and white checked tablecloth with a magician's flourish and spreads it over the table in the radio room. Kinch is close behind with dishes and Carter with silverware as they set the table for dinner. Newkirk produces a couple of candlesticks and a bouquet picked fresh from Klink's garden.

That is one regret I have, I think to myself. I never got to meet Klink or Schultz. Or Hochstetter for that matter but I don't think I regret not meeting him – the Gestapo would have a field day with a time traveller.

This is the first time I've had everyone join me for dinner. LeBeau did himself proud with a very tasty stroganoff which I will remember every time I watch one of my favorite episodes, "The Gestapo Take Over" (from Season 6). Conversation was never lacking and I don't remember the last time I laughed so much. It was a great meal but all too soon it was over. Time for me to go.

"Thank you for everything," I begin as I gather my satchel and sling it over my head and shoulder.

"It's us who should be thanking you," says Kinch.

"Yeah! Without you, who would have saved the Colonel?" pipes in Carter.

"You would have thought of something, I'm sure," I reply. "It's what you do!"

Carter shrugs and the others smile. Hogan hands me the time device.

"You know, the series never did tell us what happens to you at the end of the war," I say as I pry the back off to get to the travel controls. "I'd like to think you all made it through so do your best to stay safe, will ya?"

"We will," replies Kinch, who comes over and puts one hand on my upper arm. I recognize it for what it is and clasp his other arm in a loose hug. I move on to shake hands with Newkirk and hug LeBeau who graces me with two kisses on each cheek as well. The hug from Carter lasts just a second longer than the rest and then I'm in front of Colonel Hogan.

I snap off a crisp salute which he returns with a smile. I laugh and then step back to fiddle with the device's controls. Tears spring to my eyes as I look at them all one final time.

"Goodbye! And good luck!" I call as I set the device and they disappear with the blurry shift of time travel.

My kitchen materializes before me and I quickly check the clock. It shows about five minutes since I originally left. Then I rush over to the phone display to check the date. Yes, I've lived an entire week in 1944 in the space of five minutes.

I crash on the sofa, not caring about the 66 year old tunnel dirt being tracked across my carpet. I'm relieved everything is back the way it's supposed to be. It's going to take a while to readjust to this time but a shower sounds like the best way to begin.

I take my satchel off and the flap flips open as I toss it on the cushion beside me. I stare at the item lying on top and curse in disbelief…

Darn it! In all the excitement, I forgot to take a picture!

The End

* * *

A/N: I hope everyone enjoyed my little adventure into the past. Thank you to everyone who left a review as well!

So I suppose you are wondering what became of the time travel device? I sent it to another author on this site so they could have their own adventure with Hogan and the rest of the Heroes. Hopefully, they will post their story sometime in the not so distant future…


End file.
